The mirror was often a site of gathering: the viewer would fix the self before it like a ritual, to mend the creases of small details that would later turn imperceptible to the eye. The act of leaving one’s house is not the same as leaving a room—the former is more like an exit strategy, the latter a sense of fact. This significance can likewise be accounted for by its proximity to the front door.
The mirror was imbued with historicity—a concept of the old house, the smell of wood—until it developed a vanishing point, and this is because metaphor is key in the construction of any illusion. The eye rests on beauty, but that’s only the cover for an obsession because we can look at ourselves.
To view a painting is a condition of placelessness. Where the old mirror once occupied the wall above the piano, I expected to see my face. Bright yellow, impressed with straight black lines that cross each other, neat, in a pattern, at the right-hand corner a red square, resembling a temple. Interior gradually assembling. Process of reflection both externalized and obsolete.